


Madeleine's Cravat

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, M/M, Madeleine Era, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8163685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: He cannot quite remember how it started. It seems like there should be a clear memory: one moment where it went wrong, a step mistaken, a word said or a gesture made that should not have been done and which had led to this: Javert, that ever suspicious shadow haunting him, on his knees before him in his small office above the factory.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/gifts).



Valjean cannot quite remember how it started. It seems like there should be a clear memory: one moment where it went wrong, a step mistaken, a word said or a gesture made that should not have been done and which has led to this: Javert, that ever suspicious shadow haunting him, on his knees before him in his small office above the factory.

Javert's mouth is hot, and the man works him with ferocious deliberation. For as quiet and subservient as Javert likes to appear, in these moments even this act of submission seems to take on a darker shade.

Perhaps, Valjean thinks helplessly as he tries to keep from arching into the sensation, perhaps there is some truth to that; perhaps Javert believes he can draw the truth out of him with the fierce attention of his mouth which, for all his subservience, has never been gentle. Javert's tongue is hot; it burns him like a brand, and Valjean is helpless beneath it. He who guides the fates of this small town trembles beneath Javert's touch as though they were not mayor and police spy, as though Javert's subservience serves only as a mirror to reveal the truth: that it is the convict trembling beneath the hands of the guard...

Javert's mouth tightens around him. Valjean's eyes are drawn to it, helpless at the sight: reddened, swollen lips parted in a perfect _O_ around the hard column of his cock, the tongue that knows no mercy for the many small infractions Javert deals with daily now as soft as velvet as it furiously attends him.

Perhaps this is simply another form of service for Javert. Perhaps there is nothing more to it. Perhaps to Javert, this is no more than a task to be done, a politeness offered a superior, no further motives needed for an act that is very simple in the end...

Javert draws back far enough that his slick lips glide over the head of Valjean's cock. His tongue slides along the crown and Valjean sinks back further into his chair, his hand trembling as he keeps himself from reaching out for Javert's hair to hold him there, hold him just like this, force this moment to go on and on...

And then Javert slides down once more, heat engulfing him as pleasure races through and out of Valjean. Even as he spends in Javert's mouth he cannot stop thinking of how shameful it is to use an inferior so. Yet at the same time he cannot take his eyes off Javert's mouth: his cheeks hollow as he furiously swallows, the arch of his throat exposed and vulnerable, Javert's lips red and wet.

When Javert is done, he calmly puts Valjean to rights again, buttoning up his trousers before he stands and takes a step back. Once more he appears calm and collected, the expression in those shadowed eyes unreadable.

Valjean swallows. There is sweat at his brow. He does not dare to wipe it away; under Javert's calculating gaze, he cannot help but think his trembling hand would give it all away.

Instead, he waits for a moment until he has recollected himself, and then stands to escort Javert to the door.

There is no need for that, of course; he knows that Javert would rather eschew any sort of needless politeness. Still, Valjean cannot help but feel that he owes the man respect at least, even despite what they have done—perhaps especially because of what they have done.

"Your cravat, monsieur," Javert says suddenly before they have reached the door.

They are facing each other. Valjean pales when Javert reaches out to take hold of one end of the cravat of simple, dark silk he has tied this morning.

"It is askew. Allow me." Javert does not wait for Valjean's agreement. Instead, he tugs on the end in his hand—the wrong end, Valjean realizes a moment before the cravat tightens.

Rather than unraveling, pulling on this end makes the cravat choke him like a noose. Valjean feels his eyes widen as he stares at Javert, breathless and suddenly afraid. Javert's lips are still reddened. Incongruously, Valjean wonders if he could taste himself on them. The thought is frightening, he does not know where it has come from, and his own lips part at the pressure around his throat.

Javert's eyes are dark like shadow and as unreadable as he watches him. The thumb of his hand that holds the cravat rests against Valjean's throat. It moves just the slightest fraction, as if to taste the frightened flutter of Valjean's pulse. It could be a caress, Valjean tells himself even as his heart is racing, the pressure in his chest building, the silk so tight he cannot inhale and his heartbeat so loud that surely Javert has to hear it, hear what it gives away...

Then Valjean is released. The pressure lessens as Javert finds the other end of the cravat and the noose is loosened.

"Forgive me, monsieur," Javert says.

Valjean cannot tell if there is mockery in the words when Javert's hands are slow and reverent as they retie his cravat in the simple style Valjean favors. Javert's hands do not linger. There is no familiarity of touch between them. It has always been like this: after Javert has done his duty, he leaves, content with what moments of agony he has wrung from Valjean—or perhaps, Valjean thinks, still sweating, content simply to have served a superior and seeing no further need to acknowledge something that is at its core quite simple.

"Monsieur." Javert bows, the gesture accurate and economical as everything else about this man. Nothing gives away what happened in this room only moments ago but the flush of Javert's lips.

Valjean nods, dismissing Javert from his office. He does not dare to move until he has heard the sound of Javert's boots descend the stairs to the bottom.

Today, it takes a long time until he has gathered his thoughts enough to take up his correspondence again.


End file.
